My Story
(written by me not chatgpt)

The story is that I was an abandoned little girl.

Emotionally abandoned, like millions of millennial kids who hated their parents and listened to Eminem.

The Matildas. The Harriet the Spies. The quiet, little mixed-race Park Slope kids with messy hair.

That was me.

This upbringing left me with a weak foundation of self, and like millions of other millennials, I am spending my adult life recovering from the black hole in my heart caused by neglect and child abuse—while also trying to make sense of a completely chaotic, technologically foreign world.

A smiling child sitting on a park bench with a playground and trees in the background.

I entered adulthood completely lost and desperate.

Yet I’m associated with success and ambition because I started a successful internet company at a young age.

But it wasn’t because I had a plan, money, or stability—no.

I was a scared, broke 21-year-old who was anorexic and totally lost in the margins of capitalism and the streets.

I didn’t know how I was going to take care of myself, and I used what I knew about the internet to cover my ass.

The business was rooted in my belief that girly businesswomen deserve to be taken seriously.

It was for girls who felt like just because you love pink or choose to wear heels and miniskirts, it doesn’t mean you’re stupid, incapable of running a business, or unworthy of respect.

A young woman with long black hair smiling and wearing a black t-shirt with '#BOSSBABE' written on it, sitting in a room with a clothing rack, string lights, a wooden stool, and a potted plant in the background.

The brand was the first to introduce what would become known as “Millennial Pink,” a shade that generated billions in fashion, beauty, and business via Glossier, Pantone, Kylie Skin and much more.

A shade that, like many things I start, I had to fight to get credit for.

More on that soon.

I sold the company for a ghastly amount at 24.

No one could understand how I did it. Not even me.

A magazine article from BYRDIE discussing the rise of millennial pink in fashion, featuring images of diverse young people dressed in pink clothing and accessories, with headlines emphasizing confidence, community, and joy.

Along that journey, things got philosophical.

Sadly.

It was 2015 and I started to wonder if the world knew how fast it was moving.

Instagram was slowly turning all of us into zombies and I wasn’t sure we were realizing that.

I found out there were names for my interests.

I had passion for economics, innovation, and anthropology.

Not only did I have a passion—I had ideas and I started posting them.

Those ideas were getting me asked to do surreal things like teach memes at Stanford (twice).

They started getting me noticed by the biggest people in tech.

People you’re familiar with.

At first, this was exciting.

It was thrilling to watch actual billionaires take notes when I spoke.

This was around 2018.

Four people seated on a stage with a black background displaying 'Times Talks' and 'The New York Times' logos, engaged in a panel discussion.

But, well—what do you think happened next?

I started to feel like an artist signed to a predatory label.

Suddenly, I could tell I was being watched—studied.

I started feeling weirdly unprotected.

I knew they were watching, but they weren’t saying anything.

They knew my name, but they just acted like I was invisible.

Person doing a headstand with feet on the car door sill in a parking garage, holding an object in one hand.

Screenshot of a social media post comparing Snapchat and Instagram logos with text discussing business philosophy and ethics

It was a shame. I wanted acceptance from this world of thinkers and leaders in tech.

I was so young an naive at the time, I thought I had it.

What I really had was their attention.

*gulp*

To them, I may be fun to watch, but I was not safe enough to join the club.

I was safe enough to steal from, but not safe enough to acknowledge.

Everyday I’d get wind of my content being circulated on the inside. They were using my image, my tweets, my ideas to build things. Big things. Things I put them on to.

It got so bad I thought I was trippin!

But the more big stories about technology & culture were being told without me, the more I had to wake up and realize I was contributing to a culture that was profiting from me and ignoring me at the same time.

Ain’t that a bitch?

I tried to run, but I couldn’t hide.

A woman with long platinum blonde hair kneeling on a floor in front of an open door. She is wearing large sunglasses and a black top, with makeup including lipstick.

I tried to retire from social media, but every attempt I made to do well for myself kept circling back to who I was online—this “tech philosopher????”

That didn’t even make sense to me.

The reality is tech-philosophy only matters to complete creeps like artists and billionaires and other philosophers. None of us are normal, and now I have swarms of them watching my every move.

Gee, thanks internet.

Hey kids! I went to the internet and all I got was this lousy, creepy surveillance machine I built with my bare hands by accident.

…I didn’t know what to do.

I began to realize the soft, cozy home I was seeking for my inner Park Slope kid was further than I fucking thought.

The shame and confusion about what I should do only got worse and worse.

A woman with long blonde hair sitting in the driver's seat of a car with her right hand covering her face, showing a silver bracelet on her wrist.

I didn’t mean to make things more complicated, but I did. In my effort to ease my paranoia and hypervigilence, I picked up pole dancing.

Now the girl who was advocating for being taken more seriously was bussing it wide open on the gram.

It was safe to say… the streets thought I had lost my mind.

I had.

But it was a relief. My mind has been a source of torture for me—and for millions of other people like me.

Silhouette of a pole dancer performing on a pole in front of a horizontal-striped background.

What good has it really given me?

What do you do when you live in a world that treats you like you’re stupid because you dress sexy or because you’re a woman, yet you’re also smart enough for tech companies to sneak around your back and generate billions of dollars from your ideas while you don’t see a penny of it?

Well—you go crazy.

And I’m not ashamed of that.

I want the world to see the corner I’ve been pushed into.

How one makes an environment in these margins.

A woman with long platinum blonde hair wearing tinted sunglasses and a top made from dollar bills, standing under a parking garage.

Why must I be the only one with this sick view, dude?

My art piece—my brand—is reflecting what the world already assumes about me, and letting people witness how this gap between image and substance plays out in my everyday life.

It forces the question: what is my value here?

Beauty?

Brains?

Both?

Neither?

Brains in the dark? Beauty in the light?

Brains in the dark? Beauty in the dark?

Everything in the dark?

A woman with long dark hair, dressed in black stockings, lying on her side on a metal table, in a clinical or industrial setting with plain white walls.

They use my brain but distance themselves from my image and they use my image, blinding themselves from my brain.

Somehow this culture has designed itself to both discard and surveil me at the same time.

There are so many leeches on me that sometimes I don’t even feel them until I flick them off.

It’s a living nightmare. I discover new ones to peel away every day.

A woman with blonde hair sitting in the driver's seat of a white car, covering her face with her hand, while a man in the passenger seat looks away. The car is in an indoor parking lot, and the image appears to have been taken during nighttime.

And so that’s why I am the way I am. I’m playing a trick on you. What matters more? What is valued more?

Help me figure it out because I’m dizzy.

Silhouette of a person lying on their side, wearing a transparent yellow top, with a plain light-colored wall in the background, seen from a low angle.

This was never even where I was trying to go.

What started as an innocent journey toward basic safety and a sense of home for my inner Park Slope kid has transcended into an industry picking me apart and leaving me exposed.

And yes—I want you to see the discomfort of being broken down into pieces.

This discomfort reflects a culture that doesn’t know how to process the fruit it bears.

We receive so many conflicting messages about who to be and what to do because we are building a world too fast to keep up with, and we’re too scared to admit that.

Instead of fighting or resisting these pressures, I am allowing them to shape me and show the world what form they take. What shape we are.

I’m fascinated.

It’s time we start embracing this strange fruit.

It is a reflection of our roots, our environment, our food.

Our minds.

By not resisting, but embodying man’s “dark, twisted fantasy,” I don’t have to demonize it or explain it at all—it reveals its own perversion for me.

There’s no use in running or hiding. I’m done.

Why rant about how barbaric and perverse the world has become when I can simply lie down and let you watch what it’s like to be eaten alive?

A young woman with long, curly hair sits on a bench inside a subway train. She is resting her chin on her hand and smiling at the camera. She is dressed in casual black clothing and Converse sneakers. The words "RESONATE" and "ALEX WOLF" are overlaid on the image, along with the phrase "for anyone who wants to build an audience."

Cartoon female demon with horns, tail, and dark hair, sitting on a purple and black checkered surface.

Buy My Book
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Resonate: For Anyone Who Wants To Build An Audience

A person's legs with furry slippers, a bottle labeled 'SpoiledChild', a lit candle, and a white curtain, set on a light-colored wooden floor.

work with us.

Past accomplishments:

My Story(written by me not chatgpt)

My Story
(written by me not chatgpt)